


Stealing a Velvet Sun

by BirdieMing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Assassination, BAMF Hermione Granger, BAMF Pansy Parkinson, Character Death, Dubious Morality, Eventual Happy Ending, Friendship, Horcruxes, Marauders' Era, Multi, Violence, slow burn relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-05-07 10:09:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14668833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdieMing/pseuds/BirdieMing
Summary: The one where Hermione and Pansy go back in time and defeat Voldemort to prevent the collapse of the wizarding world with strategic assassinations, an extremely thorough murder board, boring stakeouts, underhanded tactics, and a healthy amount of snark.





	1. When the World Breaks

**Author's Note:**

> I will tell you now that elements of romance will not be heavily featured in this story. This is a story of friendship and redemption, of grey morality and sacrifice, and of every emotion that accompanies having to do the impossible. I sincerely hope you’ll stick around. 
> 
> Please read this fic with care as content may include graphic violence, suicidal ideation, threats implying sexual assault (this chapter only), torture, and drug use. **This statement serves as a blanket content warning as I will not be providing warnings at the beginning of each chapter.**
> 
> Much love to LuceFray27 for betaing.

_There's somethin' in the water, I can taste it turnin' sour_  
_It's bitter, I'm coughin', but now it's in my blood_

Change - Lana Del Rey

* * *

_May 2nd, 1998_

_Battle of Hogwarts_

It was silent and still for a moment, shock coursing through both sides as the boy who had spat in the face of death did so for the last time. The gods looking down upon their battlefield had looked away for a mere second before Mortality viciously swooped in for the ultimate feast.

Fury rose from their side, streaks of green light shooting toward the crowd in uniform black. The dam of restraint had broken, their only hope was lying dead on the ground, and there would be no more mercy. In reckless grief and crazed elation, battle resumed.

Sounds of war—of death were ringing in Hermione’s ears. Her heart broke as she kept her focus on her opponent, not knowing if Ron was still behind her. If he was still _alive_ behind her.

The nameless Death Eater was laughing, almost dancing as he dodged her curses. “Little mudblood isn’t so high and mighty now, is she?” he taunted. With a grin of rotting teeth, he said, “Ol’ Antonin’s got dibs on you when we’ve rounded your lot up, but I reckon he’s generous enough to let me have some fun.”

The insinuation was there, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel shaken by it. People like him, people who are merciless in power and resort to the lowest form of violence cannot be spared, cannot be exempt from consequence. There could be no redemption. With that thought in mind and a flick of her wrist, the final curse left her lips with the strongest conviction.

“ _Avada kedavra!_ ”

He fell with his mouth still in a sneer.

Surveying the rest of the scene as she ran, it was clear that they were losing. Badly. Their dead, some unrecognisable, laid bloodied and filthy on the ground. Those still locked in battle were fighting valiantly, but they were losing steam with Death watching so closely. She tamped down the panic rising in her throat, the fear threatening to paralyze her, and kept moving.

Hermione’s eyes found Harry, as they always tended to do. His body had been kicked over in the chaos of battle, glasses now lying broken a few inches away. She turned away sharply and tried to suppress the urge to lie down with him and let herself be engulfed by sobs; to weep for it all. She still didn’t know where Ron was.

With her back pressed against a wall, she fought to catch her breath as her eyes and ears remained vigilant. In the inner pocket of her jacket, her old DA coin began to heat up. Neville had redistributed them to all that had passed through the Room of Requirement, including those in the Order. It pulsed three times.

_Fall back. Safe houses. Now. - M.M._

Professor McGonagall was right, Hermione _knew_ she was right. Continuing to fight would only lead to more death, and its appetite never seemed to end. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried not to think so much for once in her goddamn life. To stop trying to be a bloody hero and just run because heroes always died and they never did it with dignity.

The coin burned insistently.

She apparated, leaving the crumbling school behind.

 

***

Hermione’s legs gave out when she appeared in the little cottage. Her whole body hurt with the recognisable ache that only multiple attacks of the Cruciatus Curse could induce; it seemed that they all liked to play with their victims.

In the sudden overwhelming silence, the reality of the situation and complete uncertainty of what would happen next slammed into her. Her mind was moving too fast. Just minutes before, the only thing she had to focus on was surviving and making it to the next moment.

She couldn’t breathe. It was too quiet.

_Ron’s supposed to be here too, why isn’t he here? He was assigned to this house, with me and Harry and Professor Lupin and Tonks and—_

She couldn’t breathe. She didn't—she couldn't—they were supposed to—

_They’re all dead. They’re all dead._

“ _No_ ,” she moaned, weakly slamming her fist into the floor. “ _No…no…no…no_.” Great wracking sobs erupted from her throat in between soundless screams as she finally gave into her earlier wish.

 

***

Hermione awakened in the sun-filled foyer five hours later, still alone in the cottage. The light cut through the dark wood floor and revealed the dust motes floating through the air. It set a peaceful scene and made Hermione feel wrong, like she’d been thrust into a simulation somehow. Her mind, however, was thankfully quiet enough to allow her to mechanically heal the cuts and scrapes that littered her body.  

After taking a hot shower and changing into clean clothes, she brewed a cup of tea and sipped at it periodically, her appetite not having recovered from her months on the run. The food in the pantries and Muggle refrigerator would remain fresh for a year under the Stasis Charms anyhow.

Miraculously, it seemed, her tear ducts refused to produce during the day, subtracting one less companion to her still aching heart. As it was simply not in Hermione’s nature to do nothing while she waited for communication (and she _had_ to believe that there  _would_ be communication), she busied herself in the modest library by pulling volumes that would be of use or of interest. Though its selection was by no means unworkable, Hermione found herself wishing for the hundreds of thirty-foot shelves the Hogwarts library had to offer.

She nodded approvingly at how there seemed to be just as many history books as there were defense and spellwork. Being well-versed in the past was shrewd with history having a set of favourite tropes. It would be even more important to study the coup d'états of yesteryear if they hoped to rise again. Surely, the lost battle would not mark the end of a decades-old war. They just needed to regroup, was all.

Hermione shoved away the sardonic voice in her head that told her that perhaps there was no one left to even regroup, but the pit in her stomach widened still.

 

***

The DA coin burned again that evening with another message from Professor McGonagall.

_Destroy coin. Blown. - M.M._

Hermione’s heart leapt as the coin turned matte, knowing that the message implied that there were other survivors that had made it to their safe house. It would mean that they would rise again. She just had to wait.

 

***

_May 5th, 1998_

There hadn’t been another correspondence, and Hermione hadn’t slept since. For the majority of time, she paced the length of the living room, unable to stay still or focus on any of the words she attempted to read.

A loud crack of Apparition sounded from the backyard. Hermione’s head whipped toward the screen door before she cautiously made her way to the yard, her wand held out fiercely in front of her.

In the dimming sun, it was quickly revealed that it was Ron who laid unconscious in the grass, his chest falling and rising shallowly. Hermione nearly collapsed at the sight of him, but recovered to immediately run to his side and summon the large medical kit from underneath the sink.

Blood was oozing out of the deep slashes that covered his body, the colour stark against his pallor. Her eyes stung with unshed tears (crying would not do them any good) as she repeatedly murmured “ _Vulnera sanentur_ ,” and traced her wand over the worst of the wounds.

 

***

_Three weeks later_

Ron did not care to talk about what had happened to him. Only once prompted by strong pain medication did he slur in delirious speech, “‘Mione, they’re all dead. I saw ‘em. Gin, Fred, George, Perce, Charlie, Bill. They’re all dead. Can’t save anyone, ‘Mione.”

He did not say much of anything at all, really, and spent most of his time sleeping. There was a small part of her that felt envious of his ability to sleep and escape from their reality.

Hermione left him alone for the most part, not attempting to push him into conversation or to elaborate on his drug-induced statement—to be entirely truthful, she did not want to know the details anyway. How he arrived and what he said had revealed enough to make a rough sketch.

In his waking hours, he had taken to exercising in the backyard, muttering something about wanting to be ready. Hermione often joined him, partly because it was indeed a good idea to maintain a certain level of stamina, but mostly because she was afraid he’d be too demanding of his still recovering body.

It soon became clear that exercise would not be enough to distract Ron. He was getting increasingly restless, pacing around the cottage like a caged lion. Hermione tried her best to occupy him with busy work—asking him to chop the vegetables or assist in her research, but the small cottage seemed to only shrink more with each passing day bringing disappointment as no correspondence arrived.

Sat at the kitchen table with heavy volumes stacked high, Hermione rubbed at her tired eyes. “Ronald, can you read chapter fifty-three and summarise it for me? I believe it’s on the Coup of 1298, when the High Clan of Athens—“

“How do you do it?” he asked quietly from the window, cutting her off.

“Do what?” She kept her tone even.

His jaw clenched. “Sit here and _read_ like it’s going to save the world. Everyone we know is dead—“

Hermione cut him off sharply, slamming the book shut. “ _We don’t know that_.”

“They’re as good as,” he said stubbornly. “C’mon, Hermione. We haven’t heard from anyone, and it’s been three weeks. If they’re not dead, they’re captured and might as well be.”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek hard and tried not to see reason in his words. “Professor McGonagall said the coins were blown. That has to mean there are others that made it to their safe house. She will send word when it’s safe. You know this. The procedure hasn’t changed.”

He stayed silent for a long time before he finally muttered. “We’re not doing enough.”

Hermione felt stung by that, irrationally perhaps. “What do you suggest, then?”

Squaring his shoulders, Ron looked resolute as he said solemnly, “We prepare for Plan Z.”


	2. New Wave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta love: LuceFray27

_I'm alive_  
_I don't credit the source_  
_I just drive_  
_And then the fog rolls in_  
_And then they're blind_

Breaker - Deerhunter

* * *

  _June 12th, 1998_

Harry, Hermione, and Ron had known the risk they were taking in embarking on the Horcrux Hunt. It was, in fact, probable that nothing would go as planned and that multiple contingencies would need to be considered. But it was only a bud of concern in each of their minds, and none of them dared bring it up for the fear of actually needing a backup plan.

Big mistake. After the disastrous Ministry heist, which left Ron badly splinched as a result of barely escaping Yaxley and inadvertently revealing the location of 12 Grimmauld Place, it was time to let go of any pretense and the idea that bullheaded confidence would ensure success. It was time to admit aloud that they were knocking on Death’s door and hoping it was out buying groceries.

_It was only after Ron had fallen asleep inside the tent that Harry and Hermione spoke without giving tense orders._

_“How did this happen?” Harry asked miserably, resisting the urge to shout his frustration._

_“We were naive,” Hermione said simply. The successful retrieval of the locket did little to lessen the traumatic image of their best friend nearly bleeding out on the forest floor._

_“He could have died._ Fuck _, he could have died.” Harry shook his head and felt his chest squeeze at the reminder._

_There was a lump in Hermione’s throat as she looked down at her hands, Ron’s blood still beneath her fingernails. “We know what we signed up for, Harry.”_

_“It didn’t mean signing up to throw yourselves headfirst into slaughter,” he countered immediately. Then quietly, he added, “I’m the one that’s supposed to die. Just me.”_

_Hermione wanted to argue, to give him hope or a will to survive anyway, because it wasn’t fair. He was just a boy—they were all just children. But what he said was true. She’d known the moment Harry told them about the prophecy. So she said instead, “It’s only going to get more dangerous, if today is any indication.”_

_He looked at her, ready to accept the hurt that was inevitable—they were going to leave him. With a heavy exhale, he said, “Look, if you or Ron want to go—“_

_“We know what we signed up for,” Hermione said again, imploring him to understand that they were in it for the long haul. They’d followed him into the fire for the last six years, and the habit proved to simply not be of the breakable sort. Loyalty was not a bridge so easily burnt when it was made of steel._

_Harry saw it in her eyes and swallowed back the emotion that suddenly washed over him. “Okay.”_

_A stillness fell over them for a moment before Hermione continued, “The mistake was ignoring the variables. We_ have to _start basing our plans off of everything that could go wrong. We can’t go in expecting to use Plan A and become blind as soon as something’s off. We need to prepare for every possible outcome if we’re going to win this!” She paused, then with a fierceness that made Harry sit up straight, she said, “We’re taking him down, Harry. No matter what.”_

Harry had sacrificed himself in the hopes of propelling them toward a better world. Instead, it had left them in anything but. Still, trying his damnedest to fulfill a duty that no mortal ought to have bore had to _mean_ something.

Ron and Hermione were set to inherit this duty—defeat Voldemort, end the war—it had been decided the moment their bond was solidified with triumph over a stray mountain troll in the girl’s bathroom. So the heartbreak of losing a brother was forged into an iron shield as the living room filled with boards pinned with paper and string.

Plan Z never made it past talk between the three of them; the earlier fear of needing a contingency plan clung to this circumstance. They couldn’t dance around it anymore, not when an abyss was threatening to swallow them and their world.

Ron saw it first in the way they pitted sibling against sibling in an arena that would never leave his mind. He saw it in the way they broke Ginny first when none of them would act against their baby sister. He saw it in the way Fred and George would rather die by their own hand before harming one another. He saw it in the way Charlie begged Bill to _just do it_ , that he had a wife to live for. He saw it in the way Percy apologised with tears in his eyes, as if he could’ve stopped this alone if he hadn’t been so foolish before. He saw it in the way Bill told him to go and find Hermione, that they can end this before he shoved his wand into Ron’s hands and threw himself into the fray.

Hermione knew she was lucky to arrive at the safe house that night without any major physical injuries. As a result, she fell back into familiar grade school compliance, waiting for instructions and reading history when it was too late for that. Ron’s arrival lifted a weight off of her chest, but a new weight replaced it soon enough. She may not have known what made him arrive in near-death or how he came to witness each of his siblings dead, but she knew she was lucky. And that things were worse than she’d dared imagine. Her compliance stopped now. There was a war to end.

The living room filled with boards pinned with paper and string.

 

***

_June 13th, 1998_

A Disillusioned owl had knocked on the window at dusk, giving them a fright that the letter promptly apologised for before requesting a response that reported the house’s occupants as well as their health status. To verify the authenticity of the letter, a small purple phoenix was stamped precisely one and a half centimetres below the center of Professor McGonagall’s coded signature, which read _G.R. Hatstall_ in green ink.

Their reply was brief, just two lines of text.

 _The Knight:_ _❤❤❤_

 _Polyjuice:_ _❤❤❤❤❤_

 

***

_June 17th, 1998_

_Somewhere by the sea_

Using the spare Unregistered wands to avoid detection, Ron and Hermione Apparated to an airy beach house. The sky was blue, fluffy white clouds floating their way across it as warm sun fell atop of them. In another time, it would’ve been the perfect place for a summer holiday.

The double French doors swung open, revealing Minerva McGonagall flanked by Kingsley Shacklebolt and Arthur Weasley, all three pointing their wands at the newcomers. Ron and Hermione did the same, their stances shifting in case all was not as it appeared.

Common courtesy allowed the hosts to question first. “What was the last thing I said to you and your siblings?” Arthur directed toward Ron, looking tense and devastatingly hopeful. Voice rough, Ron replied, “‘We’re tickling the sleeping dragon now. Be careful, and good luck to us all.’”

Arthur’s face crumpled as he moved toward his son, but Minerva pulled him back, reminding him that there was still another person to vet. Her chin lifted toward Hermione. “What did I say to you after your sorting?”

“You didn’t,” she answered raspily. “Say anything, I mean. You squeezed my shoulder and smiled, professor.”

The stony look on Minerva’s weathered face melted to relief. “Correct, Miss Granger.”

The tension of the scene slipped away as wands were quickly lowered and Molly Weasley came rushing out from behind to join Arthur in embracing their remaining son. They shook together, backs heaving with the force of their sobs when Ron’s head bowed and extinguished the tiny flame of desperate hope.

Hermione turned away, unable to intrude on their grief. A gentle hand landed on her shoulder and squeezed. She met her former professor’s determined eyes with ones of her own.

“Let’s get to work.”


	3. Execution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry to have left this without an update for over two months, but here it finally is! I hope it's better late than never. 
> 
> Beta love: LuceFray27, you're the real MVP.

_There's no end_  
_There is no goodbye_  
_Disappear_ _  
With the night_

Wait - M83

* * *

  _June 25th, 1998_

_Somewhere by the sea_

There were too many vacancies in the house that should have been bustling with life. Every seat at the dining table should have been filled—crowded to the point of meeting elbows with every subtle movement. It hit deep in the gut, but no one dared speak of removing the extra chairs, the extra everything. Instead, they forced themselves to stare at the emptiness, to confront it each day and keep moving forward despite the harshness. A crucial reminder.

Minerva sat at the head of the table as their calm leader. The three Weasleys occupied the left side, sitting closely, while Kingsley Shacklebolt, Hermione, and Mrs Figg took the right. Tentatively, the small group sipped at their tea and bit into their scones until eventually the tea was drained and only crumbs remained on their plates, the purpose of their gathering no longer able to be delayed.

Minerva cleared her throat softly, effortlessly drawing everyone’s attention.

“I won’t waste time rehashing the facts. However unfortunate, I’m sure each of us are aware of the circumstance we find ourselves in,” she said. “It is not ideal to have so few of us here and confirmed safe, but we cannot succumb to cynicism. We may have lost the battle, but do not be mistaken, the war is far from over. We have licked our physical wounds, quietened our grief, and now it’s time to return to our efforts of reconnaissance and, if opportunities arise, rescue.”

Mr and Mrs Weasley looked stricken, torn between wanting to hide away for the rest of their days and savour the tiniest sliver of peace life had left to offer and throwing themselves back into a seemingly inextinguishable fire. Ron, sitting between his parents, had his jaw set determinedly, hands folded tightly in his lap.

A lick of doubt made Hermione press her lips together. It had only been eight days since she and Ron arrived. Eight days since they were briefed on the ongoing efforts to locate those who were MIA as well as plans of attack.

She couldn’t help but think the proposal was foolish, at best. Even with two witches labelled as the brightest of their generation, a now former high-ranking Auror, the combined power of a grieving family, and a sharp-eyed kneazle breeder, their seven would be no match for the one hundred fifty holding their people captive. She bit back her instinctual protest, however, unable to provide a better course of action.

Minerva continued. “With Miss Granger’s additional insight, as the originator of the communication coins, we were able to successfully tap into the defunct network and follow the connection to now thirteen locations of interest—”

“When do we start?” Ron interrupted, always too impatient.

Mrs Weasley grasped onto his forearm with urgency, eyes prematurely mournful. “No,” she said firmly, shaking her head. “I won’t allow it. I forbid it.”

“Mum—” His voice was gentle, but the objection matched hers in firmness.

“Listen to your mother. We can’t— _we can’t_ lose another,” Mr Weasley rasped, voice a near whisper as though saying it outloud was a jinx.

Hermione swallowed hard, desperately trying to keep the newest box tucked in the back corner of her mind from bursting open and flooding her with memories, because the Weasley children had been a vibrant bunch, all loud laughter and affectionate ribbing and everything she had wished for as a lonely girl. In nearly no time at all, they’d accepted her and Harry, their youngest brother’s friends, extending friendship effortlessly and with incredible warmth. The space in her heart for them had gone cold, dimmed in their absence.

She cleared her throat softly and met Ron’s gaze briefly, looking away when she saw that he wanted her to back him up on this. She felt selfish as she said, “Ron, maybe you should hold off on the missions. Your leg needs at least another week and—”

He cut her off with a jerky nod, temporarily relenting as he felt the weight of his mother’s shaking hand on his arm and looked at his father’s defeated figure. He’d never seen them look quite so old.

 

***

_July 9th, 1998_

Two of the coins were traced to the South Downs National Park, which deemed it low risk enough for Mr and Mrs Weasley to reluctantly allow Ron to accompany Kingsley on what was meant to be a simple recon mission. Their assumptions proved correct, and beyond, when they returned with Hestia Jones and Emmeline Vance, all four of them looking disgruntled more than anything.

Upon hearing the front door shut and an increase in the number of voices, Hermione’s concentration on the board in front of her broke. It seemed that sorting out the events of 1975 would have to wait. 

Emmeline collapsed into a cushy armchair with a groan and said to no one in particular, “Fetch me a glass of firewhisky, yeah?”

“Seconded,” Hestia said, raising a finger. Her nose fluctuated dramatically in temperature before mending with Mrs Weasley’s expert execution of _episkey_. 

While Kingsley moved to fulfil the women’s request for a stiff drink, Hermione came down the stairs. She spared quick smiles for the newly returned before beelining toward the kitchen, where Ron was forearm deep into the cookie jar.

“Ron,” she said, eyes scanning him for injuries before continuing. “How many were there?”

“Three. It was exactly as we predicted. Minimal security all around, though it got a bit hairy at the end.” He paused, mouth downturned for a moment before his expression cleared. “Anyway, it was clear that they were just lackeys. All looked young, too. No one important.”

She nodded slowly, slightly taken aback by his concise recap. “All right.” 

A brief silence fell over them as she began to brew a large pot of tea. “‘Mione,” he said, giving her a reassuring smile once she met his eye. “It was good. It feels like the start something. Like being useful again.”

The smile she returned to him did not reach her eyes. “I know.”

His face was suddenly energised, perked in a way it hadn’t been in some time. “Hey, with Jones and Vance, I think we can plan to storm Tarnbrook soon.”  

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” she began tentatively, flicking her wand to send a tea tray into the living room. “Tarnbrook’s a fortress, and _Kingsley_ barely escaped on the last recon. Even with Jones and Vance, most if not all of us will have to go.” She shook her head. “There isn’t a guarantee we’ll all make it out, and the Order’s nowhere near stable enough to take that risk. It’s just not a realistic expectation.”

“I disagree,” he replied promptly, “we have to move faster or we’ll lose ground. It’s a risk we have to be willing to take—”

“There’s risk and then there’s suicide!” she hissed, suddenly agitated. She angrily cast a silencing and mild repelling charm over the kitchen. “ _We cannot risk dying._ _Do you understand what’s at stake if we do?_ ” 

“It’s not going to come to that,” he snapped.

“How can you possibly say that? You know perfectly well what we’re up against, how horrible our odds are. It’s why we started actively preparing Plan Z!” She gestured emphatically, confounded by his reckless suggestion. Finally, she demanded, “What changed? Why do you suddenly believe we can win?” 

“How can you not?” he demanded in return. “Do you think the last seven years—“

“Because we failed!” she shouted. “We had every duck lined in a row, and _we still failed_!”

He was silenced by this truth, not having heard it said aloud in such plain terms before. She deflated. “I just don’t think you should be putting all of your eggs into one basket.”

“I’m not,” he said quietly. He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “I don’t—we’ve already come this far.”

She heard the unsaid, _we’ve already sacrificed too much._  “Yeah,” she whispered.

He looked at her, his gaze heavy with resignation. “Nothing left to lose, right? What’s another seven years?”

She found herself unable to respond. There wasn’t anything left for her to say.

 

***

 _July 31st, 1998_  

It had rained the entire day, the atmosphere in the house subdued as though subconsciously mourning. Mulling over mission logistics had been suspended for the day through an unspoken agreement, but for Hermione and Ron, who had been entrenched in the business of survival since the age of eleven, turning off the urge to consider and reconsider possible plans didn’t come naturally. It seemed, simply, the switch didn't exist.

They had locked themselves in their shared room (it became apparent after the first night that being alone in the quiet would be too unnerving) under the pretence of grief, not an outright lie, and threw themselves fully into working out the kinks in a timeline of the past. It was frustrating work that ended in too many question marks that could only be removed by bearing witness to the events. Eventually, they had to concede. 

Hermione let out a deep sigh. “This is going to be as good as it gets.”

Ron nodded unhappily, collapsing into a chair to rub at his tired eyes. She stepped back from the large boards, eight in total, and tried to will away the dread sliding down her spine. _It’s a last resort,_ she reminded herself.

“Should we talk about it?” Ron ventured.

“The plan or Harry?” she asked, moving to sit in the chair next to his. Fatigue left no room for speaking in halves.

“I’m sick of talking about the plan,” he said. Silence hung in the air, as though preparing itself for the harder, more painful topic.

“I miss him.” His voice came quiet and choked, and with a heavy exhale of grief.

“Me too,” she whispered.

“It’s just—he always seemed to _know_. Even when—how did he do it? How did he do this?” Ron looked at her, searching for answers she did not have.

Softly, knowing it was no substitute for what he sought, she said, “He was an extraordinary wizard, and we were privileged to know him.”

“Yeah,” Ron rasped.

Hermione loosely linked her arm around his and leant into his side, letting silence fall once more, so they could just sit and breathe and let the empty space left by their friend consume them for the moment. Her mind wandered to simpler times, in between the terror and bouts of stupid bravery, when the three of them were together, just talking ( _laughing, complaining, lamenting_ ) about normal teenage things. The little moments always mattered more.

A smile began to spread across Ron’s face. “Hey.” He nudged her. “Do you remember Defense in sixth year? The nonverbal lesson?”

She nodded immediately, her own smile beginning to grow.

“‘ _There’s no need to call me ‘sir’, Professor!_ ’” the pair said simultaneously before bursting into laughter. It felt like relief, knowing that there could still be little moments. 

They grinned at each other with glossy eyes, half-giddy, half-sad before Hermione cleared her throat and reached for her beaded bag. “I propose a toast.” She pulled out a bottle of Ogden’s Old and transfigured two discarded snack wrappers into glasses, pouring them each two fingers.

“To Harry,” she said.

“To Harry,” Ron echoed.

Their glasses clinked together delicately before the firewhisky was burning a line down their throats.

 

***

_October 14th, 1998_

Rescues had been slow, resulting in only a single success where Kingsley and Hestia returned, uncharacteristically tight-lipped about the whole ordeal, with Luna Lovegood. She had been nearly catatonic, only to be recovered after an induced coma and some tricky spellwork.

“They thought she was a Seer,” Hestia had informed them, looking troubled. 

Luna wasn’t the same, though. Her dreaminess was replaced with sombre contemplation. She was more prone to drifting off, staring at nothing, or perhaps just something they couldn’t see. She said less, and what she did say were often warnings. Those who heeded the warnings returned alive, reverent of her. 

For the first time, Hermione felt her disbelief in Divination waver as Luna increasingly gravitated toward her, always around, always staring as though she were a particularly difficult puzzle. It unnerved her deeply, scraping at the bone, but however disarming it was, she found herself willing to grasp at straws, to accept that something was shifting.

The day before, it had only been the two of them in the planning room, studying the 3D blueprint of some ancient Irish castle for the purpose of developing possible escape routes. Luna had been lucid for only half the time, but Hermione had gotten used to her staring by then. 

_Sitting on the edge of the table, she swung her legs, watching Hermione launch an escape simulation. They both tsked in disapproval when the four tiny figures, representing two of their own and two rescues, evaporated in a flash of red, signalling their death._

_“Perhaps cutting through here would be better,” Luna said, pointing at a narrow stairwell that led to a storage closet._  

_Hermione nodded and made the adjustment, running the simulation once more. Success. The tiny figures turned green and vibrated in a sort of victory dance. She waved her wand in a complicated pattern, making a copy of the simulation to transfer into the castle’s assigned thumbtack on the large map for later consideration._

_She felt the heat of Luna’s stare as she moved to tap on the next location’s thumbtack, a new blueprint appearing. It seemed that her lucidity had gone away for the moment._

_Hermione sighed and turned around, meeting her unwavering gaze._

_“Luna?”_

_“Yes, Hermione?”_

_She swallowed, trying not to look away. “We won’t win this, will we?”_

_Luna’s expression did not change. Her eyes remained clear. “No.”_

A stone had dropped into Hermione’s stomach. It was no longer a matter of _if_ but _when_. At what point, though, would hope be considered lost? At what point would fighting in this time be meaningless?

 

***

It happened fast. Perhaps that would become a comfort, to have nothing too concrete to dwell on.

Hermione had been sitting at her desk, tapping a Muggle pen against a notebook, brows furrowed as she stared at a list of flaws in Plan Z and tried to brainstorm alternative paths. It did little to distract from the anxiety crawling up her throat.

It had been Ron’s idea to go back to the horrible arena he escaped, insisting that there must’ve been survivors after the riot, arguing that the Order’s numbers needed to grow and it would be a worthwhile venture. To his credit, he had presented the argument well, but Hermione still felt uneasy. There had to be more to it. For Merlin’s sake, his siblings had all died there.

She had confronted him straight after, unable to stop herself from being brash and accused him of wanting revenge. Sensitivity be damned. He didn’t deny it. She tried to understand but couldn’t. It was foolish to attempt vengeance and gain closure on something that could never be fully healed. She had been furious, more so when he barred her from going on the mission even as it became the only thing she understood.

But she had wished him luck and hugged him before he left. Then it became a waiting game.

Night had passed quickly and neared into dawn. She yawned for the umpteenth time and rubbed at her dry, fatigued eyes before resting her face heavily in her palms, gaze cast downward at her own blurring handwriting. 

She closed her eyes for a moment, just wanting to rest. When she opened them again, there was a Patronus on top of her notebook. A Jack Russell terrier. Ron.

It opened its mouth. Her hands clenched into fists. Her heart thumped loudly.

Ron exhaled shortly before he began. _“I think I’m about to die,”_ he whispered, so quietly that she strained to hear even with the Patronus’ enhancement. 

 _“I hear them coming. I’m sorry, but this is it. You have to go back.”_ His voice came choked, coated with regret. Hermione was paralyzed in her seat, silent tears slipping down her face.

 _“I’m so sorry. I don’t know if the others—”_ He was crying too. _“You can do it. I know you can.”_

Her face crumpled as a gasping sob left her throat.

 _“Hermione.”_ She tried to silence her tears. _“I love you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m—”_ His voice cut off. The terrier looked sad for a moment before it vanished in a puff of black smoke.

She felt numb, her mind suddenly gone static. She didn’t know how long she sat there before closing the notebook and roughly wiping away her tears.

The door suddenly opened and revealed Luna in her pyjamas. She walked over to Hermione and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You have to go now.”

Hermione couldn’t speak. Luna reached into her pocket and retrieved a vial of Vitamix. She uncorked it and held it to Hermione’s lips. “Drink. You’ll feel better.”

Swallowing, she allowed the energy to course through her veins, sweeping away the static and jump-starting her mind. The first thing she felt again was the heavy ache of her heart, but she pressed that down. Luna was right. She had to go now.

The second thing she felt was anger. Angry that this had to fall on her shoulders. Angry that being brave often meant sacrifice, and that it was a factor that no longer mattered. Angry that she saw Harry fall and the world turn frozen as Voldemort laughed with the visage of confirmed madness. With that image still sharp as glass, she finally let her long-simmering rage boil over.

It directed her, animating her like a puppet as she summoned her beaded bag. With a wave of her wand, she methodically shrunk down the eight boards, three full bookcases, and her notebook, sending them into the depths of her bag. Another wave and her simple trainers, jeans, and t-shirt morphed into a period appropriate style. A third summoned _The Tales of Beedle the Bard._

She tapped her wand on its cover several times in a unique pattern, unearthing a Time-Turner she had managed to nick during her short time as Mafalda Hopkirk. She placed the chain around her neck.

And paused, the sudden energy tapering off.

“It’s okay, Hermione,” Luna said softly.

She wanted to cry again but settled for a shaky exhale and a small, watery smile. “Thank you, Luna.”

Her hands were steady touching the cold metal of the Time-Turner. Two and a half turns. Two and a half decades.

She closed her eyes and disappeared without the taste of a prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment and/or kudos before you leave!


	4. Stone-faced Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely loved writing this chapter, hope you enjoy!
> 
> Beta love: LuceFray27

_I'm such a coward, these wretched things I do_ _  
_ _Disgrace and treachery and the sickness that I know is true_

Ava - Famy

* * *

Pansy should’ve felt relieved. After all, her _supposed_ side won. But she was a Parkinson, and Parkinsons knew there was no such thing as a full victory. Not without cruelty, ugliness, brutality, and enough indifference to be ruthless in enforcing the violence.

She’d seen it first hand as a mobster’s daughter; how fear and paranoia could be wielded as a weapon to bend the fates to their will. Later, as Draco Malfoy’s friend, she watched the fear bloom and consume him whole as his father’s mistake weighed heavy on his shoulders; he was Atlas holding up the sky.

Fuck the whole lot of them. How _stupid_ it was to voluntarily follow a man unstable and volatile in his greed for power. It had been alarmingly clear—at least, to herself and her father—that Voldemort had nothing more than a dream. For all of his dramatic displays of chaos and destruction, he didn’t have a sustainable strategy.

To truly conquer and control, like the Parkinsons had done with the underbelly of wizarding London, strategy had to be everything. Every move had to be by design, calculated for at least three possible outcomes and at minimum three steps ahead. Empires were such fragile things. Its bricks ought to be laid with care.

Fear, while handy as a deterrent for betrayal, would always eventually fade to be overtaken by either a suicidal embrace or courage for an uprising. What good was it to have an army stiffened by fear? What good was it to be led by a tyrant? It was loyalty without reward.

Imagine being ambitious enough to find it an acceptable condition, to find that instinctual self-preservation could be ignored because there could be a minuscule chance of basking in the glory of someone else’s coattails. Perhaps that was the real downfall of being a Slytherin.

Voldemort shouldn’t have scared her. She’d seen dozens of men like him and all of them crushed beneath the weight of their own madness. But he was different. He’d broken the way Slytherins operated, separated them into increasingly contentious factions when they were supposed to be a united front, looking out for their own in a world already hostile to snakes. That was his ultimate crime, and be it as it may, he was no Slytherin to her.

 

***

_The Parkinsons had remained neutral, staunchly so. Her father had made sure of it, staring down every member of the family, daring them to disagree._

_“A second fucking war based on blood supremacy. Load of fucking horseshit. A fool’s crusade,” he’d growled. “Let the blood traitors sully their line if they wish. Let the Mudbloods conduct their business as long as they stay in their place. No such thing as bad money in our business. You would all do well to remember that.”_

Money was money, but it couldn’t buy everything. Pierce Parkinson would pay for his neutrality and become the first to be made an example of.

 

***

_August 15th, 1997_

_Strategy meant being three steps ahead, to think for three possible outcomes. But like most things, it was not infallible, and sometimes the sprawling branches of road all led to hell, the circle of which to enter a dreaded decision._

_She was of rulemaker blood, compliance almost a sin. Almost because sometimes it was a mean to an end, an opportunity to weave a scheme beneath the surface of false security._

_There hadn’t been a scheme to weave this time. The only end was to survive._

_Her father hadn’t been an arrogant man, aware of his own mortality and flaws. Three steps ahead. Three possible outcomes. So this time, she was a piece of the strategy puzzle, returning to the harsh regimentation of Hogwarts as a compliant stone-faced girl._

_He had sat behind his mahogany desk, single malt whiskey in hand, expression unchanged as though he was giving orders to an associate rather than his only daughter. “In difficultatibus versabatur. Weather the storm. It is what we have done since the days of Edward I. It is what we will continue to do.”_

_Though she had understood, a wave of fury and hurt and bitterness still ran through her, nearly shattering her already cracked layer of composure. She searched his eyes, looking for a hint of hesitation, a hint of fatherly instinct, just so she could have something to cling to. He met her stare unflinchingly before he set his glass down and rose to his feet, crossing over to where she stood._

_He placed his hands on her shoulders, lowered his head—as though begging for repentance—and pressed a gentle kiss on her forehead. With her eyes closed tightly, she whispered, “In difficultatibus versabatur.”_

 

***

_Boarding the Hogwarts Express for the final time should’ve been a joyous, bittersweet event. Instead, it had felt like walking into the ocean to patiently wait for a merciful wave to swallow her whole. And that was exactly what it became. Heart in throat._

_Layers of tension and torture built upon the castle, its integrity shaken by the violent takeover. Student laughter and chatter drained out into the Great Lake, tainting and taunting especially the Slytherins through the green tinge it gave to their common room. How fitting it was to be reminded that it was_ their _House that had nurtured the source of terror that reigned over them now, as though they didn’t fucking know their noble House had been warped into an image of inherent darkness._

_Pansy had done what she was told, not daring to protest when Alecto Carrow selected her from the back to demonstrate the Cruciatus on a nameless Ravenclaw whose mouth had been too smart. Maybe the mobster’s daughter can show them all how it’s done. Her hands didn’t shake, her face void of emotion. She was a zombie. Maybe a monster, too._

_What did it matter? Everyone already knew she was unsympathetic. Cold and cruel. Mean._

_Quickly evident, there was no such thing as neutrality. Being obedient wouldn’t protect her from the abuse. Her surname and House suddenly meant nothing despite it having meant everything before, the very definition of her position in wizarding society. The aforementioned factions of Slytherin House separated previously by lines in the sand had deepened into ravines, and if nothing else, one thing was clear—if you weren’t firmly on the side of Voldemort, then you were the enemy standing in the way of a revolution._

_Every night, when there was a necessary eight-hour standstill, she would heal her bruises and split lips and down a cocktail of potions; some to relieve the deep ache in her muscles—the same ones she had inflicted just to receive in turn—some to float in technicolour, the last to sleep without vision, neither dream nor nightmare, just the relief of sinking into blankness._

_In the morning, she would conceal her dark undereye circles and cast her beauty charms in front of the bathroom mirror with a handful of girls who had fathers like hers. She let herself appear unaffected, consistent with the way she was on the first day everyone saw her. She would die before they would be allowed to see her broken and cowering in fear._

 

***

_May 2nd, 1998_

_Then came the day, nine months too late, when Potter and his sidekicks arrived as the apparent cavalry. Some fucking cavalry. How could a teenage boy—even one that luck seemed to favour—single-handedly shift the tide? Was it so radical of her to see him as ordinary? To not subscribe to the god-like worship the masses fell into?_

“Give me Harry Potter, and none will be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded.”

_It was a simple proposal. Whether his word could be trusted wasn’t something she could concern herself with in the moment. All she knew was that there was a chance for reprieve._

_She had laid out her long-buried desperation for all to see, shaking arm and voice, and received unanimous hostility. She couldn’t bring surprise to rise beneath her nausea and humiliation as she crawled through the tunnel leading to Hog’s Head._

_As soon as her feet touched the sticky bar floor, her wand was out to whisk her away to 92 Arnpore, a safe house location known only to herself, her father, and two paternal uncles; the only Parkinsons by blood out of the three hundred that bore their black raven inked behind the ear. Wasn’t trust supposed to run the deepest in blood?_

_(She wasn’t so sure anymore.)_

_Warm humid wind blew hair across her cheeks upon landing on the square slab of concrete in front of an unassuming brown door. It swung open, revealing her father. He looked the same. Inscrutable and cold, but guiding her through the door and into the sitting room, his hand was gentle on her elbow._

_He didn’t ask if she was all right. Instead, he snapped his fingers for Mipsie, their house-elf, to bring them tea and said, as calm as can be, “So it begins.”_

_“So it does,” she replied, feeling her mask of indifference fall back into place. “Will Uncle Peter and Uncle Phineas be joining us?”_

_“No. They insisted on defending the manor.”_

_She hummed and took a sip from her cup. White darjeeling. It was her mother’s preferred variety. Her shoulders tensed at the recognition. Since her passing, white darjeeling had seemingly gone extinct in their world. Her heart clenched. Was this his way of showing uncertainty? And in_ what _exactly? Sometimes she wished they could just lay their hearts and truths bare and ignore the inherent game of communication, but of course, he was Pierce Parkinson, head of the most powerful crime family in all of Britain. He couldn’t afford to go without subtlety, had to keep every card close, and ultimately, it was what it was._

_She cleared her throat after a moment and met her father’s eyes. “Tea’s perfect. Mipsie has outdone herself.”_

_“Yes,” he said, despite his own cup being untouched. “Your bedroom’s been prepared. I’m sure you’ve had a long day.”_

_It was a clear dismissal, as well as a safe deduction, though she had to bite back the retort that it had been, in fact, two hundred forty-three successive long days. She gulped down the rest of the tea and set her cup down on the saucer with a delicate clink. “Goodnight, Father. I’ll see you in the morning.”_

 

***

_May 3rd, 1998_

_Dawn broke in a mere four hours after she took her nightly dose of Dreamless Sleep. The familiar shadow of emotional numbness had not left, and that was fine. She went through her morning routine, finding it to be undisrupted despite the change in location._

_Her father was already seated at the dining table, puffing on a cigar as he read_ The Daily Prophet. _Her own copy_ _was laid out beside her placemat. She moved to sit, smoothing her skirt beneath her, but faltered when she saw the unmistakable headline:_ ** _LORD VOLDEMORT TRIUMPHS AT HOGWARTS_** _._

_There was that feeling again, the same she felt on the late morning of September 1st. Heart in throat. She speared a piece of cantaloupe and left the paper untouched. The rest of the meal was spent in silence until she placed her fork down onto her plate with an air-penetrating clank._

_It was infuriating to see her father appear so placid, flipping through the paper like it was any other day. Change had arrived, and surely, he must have known that this new regime would not spare the neutral. They would be coming for them. Where was his famous sense of self-preservation now? The very same that had sent her into the corrupted depths of Hogwarts to represent their wise neutrality._

_“Something on your mind?” He looked up from that damned paper._

_“No. Excuse me,” she said, pushing her chair back roughly and taking pleasure in the way it produced a loud scraping noise against the polished marble floor._

 

***

_Time passed differently when the muscles were tensed in the face of uncertainty, expecting a gut-punch blow, or if instinct proved false, a cushion of gentle set down. Being at the safe house, however lavish the place was, felt like imprisonment. A necessary thing, of course, but imprisonment all the same._

_She couldn’t decide whether it was a blessing or a curse when evening arrived quickly. It was jarring._

_“Master wishes to be seeing you in his study, Missy Pansy.” Mipsie’s high elf voice came softly behind her._

_“Thank you,” she said, nodding in acknowledgment before Mipsie bowed and disappeared._

 

***

_She did not bother to knock on the closed door of her father’s study. Why should she? They were the only two in this damned house, and wasn’t he just so confident that it would remain that way?_

_“Never in my life, would I have thought that you would be blinded by sentiment,” she said in lieu of a greeting, of polite veneer. “You think you can trust Uncle Phineas to not hand us over? Or Uncle Peter?”_

_His silence fanned the flames of her fury. She had trusted her father to have their best interests at heart. She had trusted that enough to endure seventh year at that bastardised version of Hogwarts, to help him play the long game and emerge from the war clean. She had trusted. She had “weathered the storm” and what had it gotten them?_

_“What about me?” she asked boldly. “They tortured us, you know. All of us._ Me _.” This got his attention, but she laughed without humour. “What if I had told them about this place?”_

_“You will stop this now, Pansy,” he said, quiet and tense. A warning she didn’t care to heed._

_“Why?” she demanded. “Because I’m saying what you won’t? You think blood prevents betrayal? Have you even_ thought _about what we might do if they come here?”_

_“Of course I have!” he shouted, standing abruptly._

_She took a step forward, a thing only a daughter or a wife would dare do in the face of the Parkinson patriarch. “Then surely, you know that certain things are uncontrollable.”_

_His eyes were tired, a mirror of hers, unhidable between the two of them. He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Whatever you have lost, you need to retain faith in my actions—”_

_“I did! I did have faith!” Her voice broke in its sudden shrillness._

_“I see.” He deflated, but his face was as impermeable as ever. Did he feel remorse? Like a failure? She hoped he did._

_A loud bang came from below, the sound of wards breaking and its energy exploding the wood and brick it was meant to protect. She felt frozen, but a gasp escaped her. A gut-punch blow. They were here. Her father moved toward the door._

_“Was this a part of your plan? Did you know they were traitors?” she managed to choke out, still rooted to the spot._

_“Mipsie,” he called instead, the elf appearing instantly._

_“Master?” Her eyes were bulging, hands twisting nervously as shouts and heavy footsteps came closer._

_“You know what to do,” he said._

_Mipsie shuffled over to Pansy’s side and took hold of her trembling hand. “I is to be taking you to the safe place.”_

_“Father, please,” she said. The urgency in her voice made him pause at the door, left hand on the knob poised to turn, his silver wedding band reflecting the waning fire. She whispered, “Why?”_

_Sometimes it was the only way to present a question when there were too many, all jumbled up. Why did you let this happen? Why didn’t you do something? Why are you sacrificing yourself like this? Why? Why? Why?_

_“Because you are my daughter.”_

_He then turned the knob and stepped out into the hallway with a swiftness that betrayed no further emotion. Before she could respond or make a move to stop him, Mipsie had tightened her hold and sent the two of them into a spiraling vortex._


	5. The Debris of Gilded Idols

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve kind of veered off the original course of this fic just enough to warrant a few revisions to the tags. Though I’ve added Hermione/Rolf and Pansy/Marlene as pairings, please know that my previous author’s note in chapter 1 still stands and that romance is still not going to be a heavily featured element. 
> 
> And yeah, that’s pretty much it. Hope y’all enjoy the not so regularly scheduled programming! 
> 
> Beta appreciation: LuceFray27, thanks for putting up with my very long messages.

_But there's got to be an opening somewhere, here in front of me_  
_Through this maze of ugliness and greed_  
_And I seen the sun up ahead at the county line bridge_  
_Saying all there's good and nothingness is dead_  
_We'll run until she's out of breath, she ran until there's nothing left_ _  
She hit the end, it's just her window ledge_

One Headlight - The Wallflowers

* * *

_May 3rd, 1998_

_Naples, Italy_

_The Zabini Villa_

“Oh. You’re here,” was the first thing Blaise said when she arrived in the foyer, her face ashen. He was atop the staircase holding a glass of something surely alcoholic. His voice echoed off the marble floors. “It’s happened then?”

Pansy nodded wordlessly, and again when Mipsie asked in a small voice, “I go tell Countessa you’re here?” 

The house-elf disappeared with a soft _pop_ and Pansy let out a breath, resisting the urge to rub vigorously at her eyes. Her body felt heavy with fatigue—held up by adrenaline alone—putting her in that frustrating place of hovering centimetres above sleep. She felt _wired_ but managed to direct enough energy toward pulling out her wand to Apparate.

She appeared next to Blaise, his cologne reaching her nose, the scent meaning to be seductive and mysterious—alluring—but was only comfortingly familiar to her. She turned toward him, took the glass out of his hand, and threw it back in one swift motion before offering the glass back.

Blaise sighed and accepted his empty glass. “Come on, let’s go get fucked up.”

 

***

She hated being cross faded. There was no way of telling which was up and which was down, whether she was numb or grounded or dead. She laughed until she cried, and cried until she laughed. Ugly and manic.

Blaise was smarter than she was. He picked his poison and stuck to it.

She started to laugh again, hysteric giggles bubbling from her throat and spilling out of her mouth.

“What?” He laughed too. She liked his laugh, liked it best because it was warm and unafraid, the things she weren’t.

“I don’t think you know anything, Blaise.” Her stomach was burning from laughter. Her eyes watered, tears leaking from the corners and sliding down her cheeks, but she didn’t really notice. Everything was already blurry and doubled and moving.

“Pansy, baby,” he drawled with an easy grin, “I know enough.” 

She met his gaze, the one that looked most opaque in a halo of hazy edges. His teeth were so bright. It reminded her of a silver wedding band reflecting a waning fire. The image left as quickly as it came, rolling fog scrambling her thoughts. She swiped the back of her hand across her eyes.

“Were we talking about something? Oh, yeah. I remember now,” she slurred, hiccup-stuttering. “No, nope. You weren’t  _there._ You left before all the  _stuff_ happened. You don’t know anything!” She was nearly shrieking with laughter, gasping for breath and reprieve. Was something funny? Whatever.

Did she still have bones? If so, they were jellified, liquid like the way cats were. 

“Hey.” He reached over and tugged gently at her wrist, waiting for her to calm. “I’m sorry, Pans. Really mean it, but you know me.”

She blinked, trying to focus, trying to find the whites of his eyes. “I know, ‘s okay. Always get out before the gui—” She tried again. “Guillo- _tine_ drops. Jus’ what it is.”

Her head lolled over onto his shoulder, and their hands linked together easily. She finished off the last of her joint, blue and yellow smoke mingling into green, and stubbed it out. He refilled his glass. They’d share this last one.

She couldn’t remember what she wanted, but for now she’d settle for this.

 

***

_July 9th, 1998_

_Turin, Italy_

Photographers for the local and national papers quietly circulated the ornate ballroom, making themselves as unobtrusive as possible in the hopes of catching a distinguished guest in a less than perfect state. Pansy smiled and waved politely at a dark lens pointed at her, hoping it captured her glittering decolletage instead of the slight tremors shaking her gloved hand. She would give them _nothing._ Events like these were glorified fish bowls, a way to gather the who’s who of the top one percent and appraise each for their usefulness, networking most often disguised as charity.

Throughout the evening, she watched Countessa Zabini (the title bestowed through marriage) charm the notoriously difficult into doing her bidding, striking the perfect balance between sincerity, wit, and underlying threat. Even with the clear advantage of her cultivated lore, courtesy of her seven dead husbands, it was a master class in manipulation, on how to pull just about anyone into your orbit. 

Pansy was captivated by her performance, near worshipful. She’d never seen her quite so lethal, sweeping the room’s every available business card into her emerald clutch with a few half-promises and honeyed words. The silver panther attached to the four-ring duster of her clutch rolled onto its back in apparent satisfaction once the Countessa slipped in the last of her night’s rewards. She noted that the Countessa looked pleased but not as though she was the cat that got the cream. To anyone who looked close, perhaps they would think she’d placed an unbeatable bid on a desirable item or that she just was simply enjoying the event. There was a reason why the Countessa always came out on top. 

“Good harvest, Mother?” Blaise asked, despite knowing very well it was. His mother, for all she lacked as a parent, had always been reliable in keeping the two of them afloat.

She raised a thin brow and allowed a small smile to grace her face. “Did you see anything worth bidding on?”

He scoffed. “It’s as if they’d rather _not_ find a cure to cerebrumous spattergroit or whatever it is this time.”

“What about you, Pansy? Anything catch your eye?”

“I quite liked the Tompion clock. A bit simple, admittedly, but I imagine it’d be a good investment,” she said, though she’d barely glanced at the selection of antiques, rarities, and quote-unquote experiences. Thoughts of England remained haunting, prickling and heavy.

It turned out to be rather lucky that upon entering the venue, Blaise had swept his gaze across the other attendees and declared with a roll of his eyes that he would rather lick the grime off the Minister’s shoes than interact, let alone speak, with any of them. He’d been content to hover behind her instead, whispering into her ear his many criticisms about everything in sight, including the Tompion clock, which was deemed ‘pedestrian.’

Pedestrian clock or not, it was best to have a definitive answer when the Countessa asked you a direct question.

“Sounds like a lovely choice,” she said before turning to her son, “Do me a favour, dear, and go place a bid for me. Two million lire should do it.”

Blaise nodded and placed his hand briefly on the small of Pansy’s back before stepping away, his way of showing support without having to say anything nice. She took a delicate sip of her cocktail, the familiar taste of alcohol an uncomfortable balm for her unhappiness.

“I do apologise for being away all evening. Business, you understand. Are you doing all right?” The Countessa’s tone was casual, like she was just extending a pleasantry. But Pansy knew better than to show weakness in front of her, to give her an extra card to play. It didn’t matter that the Countessa was practically an aunt to her; her most recent lesson, after all, had been a reminder that betrayal was never off the table.

“Of course. Blaise has done well in keeping me entertained.” And he had, his derisive comments framed with sharp observation and scathing wit. He’d even succeeded in coaxing a smile out of her once or twice, drawing her into their usual tradition at such events. Draco, Theo, and Daphne would have completed the picture, if only the circumstances had been different and nothing hung above like a dark cloud. But they’ve all scattered to the wind, each of them, and that was just the way it was.

“I’m glad to hear it, dear.” She sounded as though she meant it. “Perhaps you’d like to come to the dinner  Angelo Ballotelli’s hosting next week as well. I seem to recall you wearing one of his dress robes to the Yule Ball.”

A pang of something sour bloomed in Pansy’s chest, somewhere left of her heart. But she smiled and nodded. “I would love to. It should be just as wonderful as his designs.”

“I’ll send out an owl first thing tomorrow. We’ll also need to visit his shop in Milan for a fitting…”

Pansy stopped listening (these conversations were all the fucking same anyway) and took a longer sip of her drink, the sour feeling threatening to crack her calm exterior. This was wrong. Everything was wrong, and no one seemed willing to show it. But she could not crack here, not in front of all those cameras, not in front of the Countessa, not in front of these _people._

She forced her shoulders to relax and held onto her most familiar mask, offering a close-lipped smile. “Tuesday should work just fine.”

 

***

_Later that night_

_The Zabini Villa_

The utter relief of no longer needing to perform, needing to plaster on a pleasant face was nearly worth suffocating in that damned fish bowl of a ballroom for three and a half hours. In the sweet solitary that followed the soft click locking the guest bedroom door, she immediately kicked off her heels, dropping four inches in height, and let out a breath. Her head was beginning to throb, the sugary cocktails she’d drunk on a mostly empty stomach making their consequences known.

She didn’t bother to light the room, allowing her eyes to adjust to the slightest bit of midsummer moonlight coming through the window, and dropped heavily to the floor, leaning back on the door with her legs stretched out. She could crack now, shed the unbothered persona and feel every ounce of hurt and anger and frustration and _fear_ she had for the past, present, and future. She could cry now, if she chose to, but she closed her eyes instead and absorbed the silence, the loneliness until acceptance came.

Then she stood and went to turn on the shower, to prepare for bed. Acceptance had changed the circumstances little, but damned if she would be reduced to a wilting flower, be it in privacy or not. No matter what her name suggested, she wasn’t _weak._ She would carry on. She would weather the storm. She would deal with all of it tomorrow.

 

***

_September 1998_

The days were blurring into one another, blurring into one big clusterfuck of coloured lights and heavy bass, disgusting hangover remedies (bloody hell, she’d gladly _host_ a benefit gala to fund a miracle potion for that), pretty dresses and society masks, flying high and aching joints, and not remembering her name, not remembering the past. It was easy in Italy, where quite simply, no one cared about the war in her beloved United Kingdom.

She was living in a lie, a snowglobe. Her Italian was still shit and she had started redecorating the guest room they’d put her in. Sooner or later, she would have to stop avoiding the newspapers.

 

***

_October 14th, 1998_

It had been an accident—an accident because Pansy wasn’t the type to believe in fate. The Countessa had hosted a dinner the previous night, and it had run late, leading several guests to stay overnight. Perhaps they had each sent off an owl, requesting their morning newspapers to be delivered to the Zabini Villa at breakfast instead.

She had forgotten to set up a wake up call with the elves, having been dead tired and entirely too eager to go to bed, but it held no consequence. She had nowhere to be the next day, and even if she did, the elves would’ve never allowed anyone under their care to miss an appointment.

It had been an accident.

When she walked into the dining room twenty minutes after breakfast begun, suppressing a yawn and still fighting off a veil of drowsiness, she hadn’t thought anything of the quiet that greeted her. It was usually quiet, after all.

But this was different, quiet tinged with trepidation, still hesitation. She didn’t realise until she had one hand poised to pull back her chair. She looked up to be confronted, shoved head first into trauma, by the front page of Britain’s _Daily Prophet._ The headline read in apathetic bold: **FIRST PUBLIC EXECUTION OF LORD VOLDEMORT’S REIGN.**

Immediately, her eyes darted to the image below. In plain black and white, it was her father who got beheaded, sickening and violent. Harrowing. The three men in Death Eater masks forced him to his knees _—he looked so weak—_ a fourth man swung the axe _—like an animal, they killed him like an animal._ She flinched, electric ice striking her heart, her entire body. She couldn’t look away, and it replayed, again and again and again.

Suddenly, the paper was lowered, and the image was gone. “Stai bene, caro?” a voice asked. Pansy turned toward the voice, somewhere down the table. They were all looking at her. She was shaking, heart pounding in her ears, light-headed. She was choking.

“Scusami,” she managed to stutter before stumbling out of the room.

 

***

She slammed the kitchen door shut, breathing hard, barely registering the house-elves eyeing her reproachfully. It didn’t matter; the elves here knew not to speak unless addressed. Her hands landed on the edge of a countertop, solid and cold beneath her palms. No one ever came in here. She was safe.

Heaviness, this coagulated mass, sat in the base of her throat—blobs of it stranded in her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, squeezed as hard as she could, but no tears came. So she tried again and again, increasingly frantic. Why couldn’t she cry?

 _“Damn it!”_ She threw her fist down at the countertop, welcoming, embracing the sharp pain. She squeezed her eyes shut. Nothing.

She opened her eyes, panicked and ready to throw down her fist again, but a flash of shiny metal in her peripheral made her pause. Her back straightened, and with forced calm, she turned and walked toward it. There was a cutting board and knives lined up neatly beside it, like little soldiers awaiting command.

Fate. She always went back to the concept of fate somehow, and it was bullshit. They were rulemakers, _fatemakers._ The Malfoys were before they chained themselves to Voldemort. The Countessa was. Her father was. _She_ was. 

She stared down at the knives with clenched fists and has this awful intrusive thought. It tore into her brain. She could see it so clearly; her picking up one of them, the smallest and sharpest, with this blank expression, and jamming it into her throat. The pain, the consequence of that action, probably wouldn’t even register until she’d collapsed and was going cold, choked by her own blood. Would she still think of herself as a fatemaker then?

She could do it. She could do it now. She had nothing left. It would be so _easy_ to fade away.

“Missy Pansy?” Mipsie. The house-elf prodded her with the slightest sliver of reality. 

She felt crushed, ground into powder. She could still see herself bleeding out on the floor. All it would take was a strong breeze, and she would be lost forever, never to be put back together. 

“Tell me what to do.” She wiped at her dry cheeks roughly. “You’re mine now. You answer to me, and me alone. Tell me what to do.”

Mipsie was wringing her hands. “Yes, mistress.” Her eyes were bulging and fearful, hesitant.

“That’s an _order,_ Mipsie.” Her voice was tight. She was barely hanging on.

“I cannot be telling mistress what to do. Only you can be telling me what you is wanting,” she squeaked, pulling nervously on her large ears.

Pansy pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, hard enough to the point of her vision dotting. She inhaled deeply, trying to resist the fury threatening to take her. _“What I want,”_ she hissed, _“is my life back._ A _chance_ at a life, Mipsie. Can you give me that?”

The house-elf stopped pulling on her ears. “Is that what mistress is truly wanting?”

She whipped around sharply. “Did you not hear me, elf? _Yes—”_  

Mipsie brightened and snapped her left hand twice. Pansy disappeared, leaving the air behind static. 

It had been an accident.

 

***

_Somewhere by the sea_

Luna’s eyes snapped shut, moving rapidly beneath her lids as hundreds of images began to flash through her head, almost like a flip book animation. There were so many pictures, enough to fill dozens upon dozens of albums. She wouldn’t be able to remember it all.

Abruptly, the picture album slammed shut and her eyes went still. Silent tears were rolling down Luna’s cheeks, but she smiled. She smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this fic, please don't forget to leave a comment and/or kudos!


	6. Faking Glory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless gratitude to LuceFray27 for being my beta.

_We're just left to decay_   
_Modernity has failed us_   
_And I'd love it if we made it_

Love It If We Made It - The 1975

* * *

  _October 14th, 1973_

_Near dawn_

_London, England_

On uneven alleyway cobblestone, Hermione materialised—ordinary molecules stitching together to form something utterly unordinary in its place. Her breath hitched, anxiety spidering through her torso and twitching in her fingertips. It had gone unacknowledged, how time travel—especially this far into the past—was near destined to fail, bound to leave them (her now) dead or in some between. There had been no need, not when all they had known was that they had to _try._

And she had to try now. For them, but for herself too.

The skies were still navy and in the process of shedding the night, similar enough to the one Hermione had left. The place she landed in looked to be Muggle, and perhaps she should be grateful for it. She breathed out heavily and grasped at the beaded bag hanging from her wrist, needing to be reassured, reminded that she hadn’t been left without resources. The nostalgic weight of the Time-Turner hanging around her neck pulled her toward action.

She shouldn’t be loitering. It was still too early for most to be awake, but a quick glance around told her that the shop owners would soon begin to stir, and she looked too conspicuous—even in her transfigured outfit—to avoid questions. She tucked the Time-Turner into the collar of her shirt and cast a Disillusionment Charm on herself for the sake of caution before setting off to find a newspaper, anything to confirm the date.

There were no Snatchers here—nor anywhere—but it was still dark and lonely and so very disconcerting to not know the exact danger she was facing as she tried to find her way out onto a main street. Her grip tightened on the beaded bag, her footsteps silent; the metal of the Time-Turner remained cold on her skin, insisting she remember its inscription.

_My use and value, unto you, Are gauged by what you have to do._

She had lived unnaturally before, turning each day into two (sometimes three) and studying during every conceivable minute of it. During that same horrid year, she had used this cursed device to rescue Sirius Black, and had felt so triumphant in that moment, so hopeful. In the end, she burned out and Sirius Black, in a familiar typical Gryffindor recklessness, died a mere two years later.

Use and value were two different things, one rigid and one pliable. If following the previous patterns, then she would save the wizarding world from the reign and terror of Voldemort. But what of the consequences after? Surely, something more severe than burn out and Death’s vengeance for being cheated would follow. She was reminded of her own parroted words; _terrible things happened to people who tried to meddle with their past or future lives._

(But wasn’t she about to meddle, however indirectly, with the lives of millions? Would that negate the terrible things or only amplify them? _God—_ )

It had been a factor they considered over and over again, each time coming to the conclusion that perhaps nothing could be worse than the war they failed to win. If there was, then they would face it and fight again. Maybe it was naive—a gross overestimation of their abilities—but they held onto it and onto the recklessness that hadn’t killed them yet.

 

***

Hermione turned a corner and felt palpable relief at seeing an exit, a yellow street lamp beacon in the road. She could hear drunken laughter in the distance, and it made her flinch at the edge of meeting modern pavement, a split-second hesitation before she stepped out into the slight breeze and began walking toward the nearest trash bin.

She peered into it, squinting in the low light, hoping to see a newspaper on top of the pile. No such luck. A thin corner was instead peeking out from behind a shrivelled banana peel. With her thumb and forefinger, she gingerly picked it up, shaking off the debris as best she could to reveal the upside down business section of _The Daily Telegraph._ She turned her head nearly parallel to the ground and looked at the slightly stained upper left corner.

**Saturday 13 October 1973**

She released the newspaper and cleansed her hands with a sanitation charm. It was the confirmation she had been hoping for, but all the same, she felt dread pool in between her ribs. The rewinded world was now awaiting her instruction to spin a revised history with bated breath, and the weight was crushing.

She forced herself to say it aloud, even as the quietest of whispers. “Defeat Voldemort, end the war.”

 

***

The bitterest taste came from betrayal, and Pansy was ready to cut her tongue out. Elf-bonds were meant to be sacred, near impossible to break unless through given clothes or abuse heinous enough to fray the bond—just enough for rebellion—for them to inflict harm onto their masters. But the Parkinson elves were well-treated, never struck or spat at, downright _pampered_ with designated living quarters and beds softly lined. They lived better than all other elves in Britain; she was sure of it. _And yet._

How could Mipsie have sent her here to some English Muggle high street, where she could be taken by Snatchers at any moment? With Voldemort and his Death Eaters in control, no British underrock would be safe. They were surely rounding up the rest of the treasonous, the ones proving themselves too hesitant. Her father had already paid publicly, but that couldn’t have been enough to absolve their family’s neutrality. They would need to take care of her too, and she didn’t dare believe her defector uncles would protest.

The handle of her wand peeked out from the top of her left boot, and she swiftly retrieved it, fingers clenching around the familiar piece of wood. If they were going to take her, they would only be allowed her corpse. She needed to get out of the country, go to Russia where the wizarding government had followed their Muggle equivalent and had no extradition treaty with Britain. She wouldn’t know anyone there, wouldn’t speak the language, but at least she would be able to choose what happened to her next. How she was to get to Moscow undetected, she would have to figure out on the way.

She began to walk at a brisk pace, not daring to Apparate or cast a Disillusionment Charm in case the Trace had been quietly reinstated. Her heart was pounding in her ears, jumping at every rustle of the wind or distant sound resembling voices. Her eyes darted around, behind her shoulder, and into every shadow. There was no relief in seeing that she was still alone, only the rising expectation of meeting a grim reaper.

 

***

Hermione froze at the sound of approaching footsteps. If she just kept very still until they passed, the edges of her silhouette were unlikely to give her away. Despite her quickened heartbeat, she breathed in slow and shallow.

Only once the long shadow came into view, she dared to shift her gaze toward the figure drawing near. Shock wasn’t the right word. She wasn’t sure there was a word strong enough to express the simultaneous drop felt in her stomach and the rise of air in her throat before a gasp loud enough to separate itself from the breeze was released.

Against every ounce of rationality and logic Hermione possessed, she could not make herself believe that the person walking toward her was anyone other than Pansy Parkinson. For the first time, her school bully was not wearing a sneer or smirk. She looked tense and frightened.

Not for the first time, however, Pansy had her wand pointed steadily at her. “You have five seconds to show yourself.”

Hearing her voice erased any lingering doubt, but her mind was stuttering. What was she doing in 1973? _Why_ was she in 1973?

Hermione returned to opacity and mirrored Pansy’s stance, ready to fire off a Shield Charm at the slightest twitch of the other woman’s hand.

“Granger—”

“You can’t be seen like this. You don’t belong,” she blurted.

“And you do?” Pansy retorted, gesturing toward her tan bell bottoms and floral button-up shirt.

_“Yes, actually.”_ Hermione’s hackles rose, the wording of their conversation all too similar to their past exchanges. But things were different now, and she had the upper hand here. She forced herself to calm, though her voice remained tense. “The shop owners are going to be waking up soon, so I’ll keep this quick. I don’t know how or why you’re here, but you’re not in 1998 anymore. It’s October 14th, 1973.” She reached back into the trash bin with her free hand, keeping her wand unmoved, and held up the newspaper. “Judging by the smell, this bin hasn’t been emptied in about a day, so this must be yesterday’s.”

Pansy’s eyes landed on the same date Hermione’s had just minutes before, and immediately, her head began to shake back and forth. “Why would—?” she whispered to herself before she looked at Hermione with wide eyes. “No. No, you’ve gone mad. They must’ve done something to you. Surely, you couldn’t have avoided them forever. They must’ve gotten you at some point and—how did you escape?”

Hermione warred silently with herself for a few moments before she pulled the Time-Turner from beneath her collar and said tentatively, “I came here by choice, Pansy.”

 

***

Her thoughts had been circling paranoia since the moment she’d stumbled in from the sudden transportation, but seeing Granger pull out what was perhaps the most dangerous instrument ever invented by wizards suddenly silenced her racing mind.

Slowly, she lowered her wand, and Granger foolishly wavered in turn. Before she could make another move, Pansy lunged forward and made a grab for the Time-Turner. Her hand closed around the cold metal. _This could change everything,_ she thought wildly.

 

***

She had only felt this specific kind of pain once, in the Lestrange Vault. The Time-Turner, chain included, seemingly burst into invisible flames the moment Pansy touched it, rocketing into burning temperatures. Hermione muffled her shrieks as best she could. The sun was beginning its climb through the cloudy sky, and they would not remain unseen for much longer.

Pansy let go with a yelp, but the metal scorched on. Tears sprung into Hermione’s eyes as she scrambled to get the necklace off, her wand falling out of her hand when the pain concentrated further and became unbearable. The necklace clattered onto the sidewalk seconds later, but her fingertips were already a deep angry red. Along the back and sides of her neck, the rope chain pattern had to have been branded into her skin.

For a moment, it looked as though the Time-Turner’s apparent defense mechanism had gone dormant again, but abruptly, it collapsed into nothing but a pile of ash.

“No!” Hermione dived for her fallen wand, wincing when her tender skin came into contact, but she soldiered through the pain. The unthinkable had happened, and there were stakes bigger than anyone could ever understand. _“Reparo!”_

The ashes were stirred only by the breeze, making no effort to be reborn and rejoined. Hermione tried again and again, increasingly desperate when the result remained unchanged. Panic was threatening to tear open her chest.

“Nothing is going to fix it, Granger. It’s destroyed.”

She turned around sharply. “Because of you!” she shouted, tears spilling over. The pain of her burns were unwavering, and she was just so _tired._ What had she ever done to deserve this unrestful life? “It was the only one of its kind. If _you_ hadn’t touched it—” Her voice cracked.

Pansy’s face was stony, betraying not even a hint of the meanness Hermione had been so used to. “It could’ve changed everything.”

“That’s what I’m _here_ for! _I_ can change everything, and you just—” She stabbed her wand at her before exhaling in defeat, clenching her fists, and turning away.

“You said you came here by choice, so why does it matter—”

She turned back toward her, arms held out wide as though inviting debate though her face was twisted with barely contained fury. “What if I had wanted to go back? _You_ took that choice away from me, from _both_ of us.”

Pansy fell silent, before she asked in a small voice, “Are we really in 1973?”

Her arms dropped. “Yes,” she snapped. “Transfigure your clothes. People are going to be awake now.”

 

***

Numbness had always been Pansy’s default coping mechanism, forced blocking of the things that eroded her willingness to keep moving forward, to focus on the _goal._ As she had often been reminded, there was going to be life after Hogwarts, a day where she would arguably be the most powerful woman in wizarding Britain, plucking every hidden string her father and his predecessors had whilst forging newer, brighter ones. She could be the one to infiltrate the Muggle mafias on the verge of collapse in America and begin their international expansion. She could be the one to place an actual Minister of Magic into their pocket. She could be the one to teeter the Parkinson family into _respected_ notoriety, to secure their footing in government and corporate manipulation.

How sweet and sour it was to have an inevitable role in what she had learned was an unpredictable world.

With the carpet once again yanked beneath her feet, whatever combination of resentment and honour she had associated with the duty she held to her family shifted to something disturbingly blank. She had no obligation to anyone or anything here, and she could easily go off and rebuild herself into any life she desired. The idea called to her longingly, but nothing was so simple. While _she_ did not, Voldemort still existed here in 1973, and he would again destroy everything. A brief shiver went down her spine before her mind returned to its coping numbness.

Her palm stung like a sunburn, a flash of deep pink the only evidence she had ever held onto a Time-Turner. She cast a cooling charm on her hand and let out a breath as the pain dulled considerably, replaced by a minty sensation. Granger was fumbling through her bag and doing a poor job of hiding her pained winces.

She eyed her impatiently. “For fuck’s sake, do something about those burns and just _summon_ what you’re looking for.”

Granger stiffened, but cast a series of charms on her hands and neck before continuing to dig through her bag manually. She supposed she deserved that. When there seemed to be no sign of progress after thirty seconds, she opened her mouth, ready to give a courtesy warning before reaching out and dumping that damn beaded bag out on the ground, but before she could say a word, Granger suddenly looked up and held out her arm. “The cave near Hogsmeade, let’s go.”

Perhaps this was the grim reaper she had been expecting. It might’ve been a rash, foolish choice, but she gripped onto the other woman’s arm with a grimace anyway, figuring if Granger had intended her harm, she would have done it already.

Besides, she lived only for herself now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't forget to leave a comment and/or kudos! I'm also on tumblr at birdieming.tumblr.com if you'd rather talk to me there!


	7. I Am Only One Person

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! 
> 
> Thank you, as always, to LuceFray27 for betaing.

_I'm living on shattered faith_ _  
_ _The kind that likes to restrict your breath_

Drain the Blood - The Distillers

* * *

  _October 14th, 1973_

_The Cave near Hogsmeade_

Hermione’s nerves were frayed, her patience thin as she wrestled with a mix of furious emotion. She immediately shook Pansy off her arm the moment their feet touched the ground and began to cast a series of protective enchantments over the entrance of the cave. She would be a fool to break the habit—even here and now in relative safety—when she was going to bring down Voldemort through whatever means necessary.

Better paranoid than dead. 

_Is it, though?_ Her mind betrayed, dragging up whispers of a valid question.

The silence between them was tense and uncertain, a thread waiting to snap, and she couldn’t decide whether to regret the split-second decision that didn’t allow her to leave Pansy there in the street. Choosing the lesser evil was all she seemed to do these days, poking pinholes through dead ends. Her nature demanded it.

Nothing was funny, but she laughed anyway, not caring about the way it made her look unhinged. Everything was absurd and she hated it with every fibre of her soul. Life was and had been curveballs galore, but this was unprecedented, a new form of cruel comedy. It apparently was not awful enough to embark on this desperate mission into the past alone. Another obstacle, in the form of Pansy Parkinson, had to be thrown into her path.

She recalled the way Pansy had clutched onto her wand, radiating paranoia and fear, and her later disbelief despite being shown the newspaper _—she hadn’t meant to time travel._ Hermione’s head throbbed with yet another stream of unanswered questions. 

Worse yet, she knew this was not rock bottom. It was an inherent fact of the situation, and she no longer had the energy for optimism, resigning instead to settle fully into the nest of her reality. She didn’t know if it would be better this way, to focus solely on the cold, unemotional truths, but she knew it couldn’t be worse. The eight shrunken boards in her beaded bag were already physical proof that having the puzzle laid out in plain print would be enough to get her through the longer days she saw ahead; the only things that mattered were on those boards. 

The protective enchantments were in place and her laughter had petered out to emptiness, carving her hollow. The view from the cave was not spectacular, but she felt obligated to just _look_ if only to find a second of peace.

“Are you quite finished?” Pansy asked mildly from behind.

This was unfamiliar territory. They weren’t in school where one could only go so far before intervention from rules and structure forced a ceasefire. But that was the point, wasn’t it? They weren’t in school anymore, and they had seen too much.

(Surely, the Death Eaters would have no sympathy for those who were passive nonparticipants, and a family as prominent as the Parkinsons wouldn’t have been spared after the Battle of Hogwarts.) 

She breathed in deeply, forcing away the momentary flare of irritation, and turned to meet her gaze evenly. “I have dittany in my bag. Do you want some for your hands?”

Pansy nodded stiffly and held out her hand for the tiny vial Hermione summoned. “Thank you,” she said, the two words sounding as though they’d been dragged, kicking and screaming, from her throat.

She shrugged, not willing to insinuate that Pansy was at all welcome, and sat down, letting her feet dangle over the edge of the cave entrance. “I meant what I said earlier. You don’t belong here, and more importantly, you don’t mean to be here.”

Pansy snorted and tossed the vial of dittany back to her. “Think fast.”

She turned and caught it clumsily, dropping it back into her bag and ignoring the brief look of confusion flitting across the other woman’s face. The charms were enough to relieve the pain of her own burns, and she didn’t care about the eventual scarring. Reminders were important.

“And I’ll repeat what _I_ said earlier. _You do?_ ” 

“Don’t deflect.” Hermione turned to face her fully, drawing a leg up onto the edge.

“You didn’t ask me a question.”

They stared hard at each other before Pansy smiled, a brittle and tired looking thing. “Not as thick as you think I am, eh?” 

“I don’t think—” 

“Don’t lie.” Pansy rolled her eyes. “I know what _everyone_ thinks of me.” 

“And you don’t seem to care.”

“No.” The smile was back with a hint of familiar viciousness.

Hermione exhaled and got to her feet, conjuring up two chairs to the middle of the space before collapsing into one of them. She gestured impatiently at the chair across from her until Pansy moved to sit as well—albeit with more grace. 

“How did you get here?”

“You’re a terrible interrogator, Granger. The straightforward approach only works with the weak or stupid, and I would like to think we’ve established I’m neither.” 

Hermione crossed her arms and raised a brow. “How did you get here?”

“Mipsie, my house-elf, if you’re just _burning_ to know.” Pansy sighed loudly and bulldozed over her attempt to interject. “Why does it even matter? If you recall, the chances of me getting back died next to a rubbish bin.” 

“How would a house-elf send someone _back in time?_ Their magic is powerful but…” she trailed off.

“World’s greatest mystery.” 

Hermione considered her for a moment, bewildered by the way she was handling her new circumstances. “Do you even _want_ to go back?” she asked, suddenly overcome by an inappropriate curiosity about what could’ve made Pansy give up so quickly on the effort. Hadn’t she grabbed the Time-Turner _because_ she wanted to go back?

“Like I said, why does it even matter?”

“Do you know how to answer a question?” she snapped, frustration spilling over.

“I don’t owe anyone anything, least of all you.”

“Imagine if everyone in the world operated like that,” Hermione scoffed, leaning back in her seat.

Pansy laughed with real mirth shining in her eyes.

“What?” she asked, but Pansy just shook her head.

“I think it’s my turn to be the interrogator.” She crossed her legs and leaned forward to place an elbow on her knee, resting her chin on her fist.

Hermione made a noise of disagreement. “Not until you offer me something real.”

“And to think I was starting to lose hope in your cleverness.” Something like begrudging surprise bubbled beneath her mocking tone, but Hermione waited.

 

***

Pansy had almost considered this to be fun, but she supposed it was inevitable that the _everything_ aspect would seep its sourness into any singular moment, however innocuous.

“Fine,” she said, straightening her spine as her deadly calm pushed up against Granger’s static-crackle energy. “I’ve used the Cruciatus on over twenty of our classmates.”

Something akin to horror and _judgment_ spread across Granger’s face. She had expected nothing less, and she refused to be ashamed. “Don’t ask for something real if you can’t handle it.” 

“Why did you do it?” Her tone grated on Pansy’s nerves. It was full of presumption seeking confirmation.

She tilted her head to one side. “Why do you think?”

Granger fell silent and looked away, but Pansy only placed more weight onto her unrelenting stare. Eventually, Granger met her gaze again and said, “You did it to survive.” 

She blinked, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It did after a breath.

“How do you deal with the guilt of doing terrible things to survive?” It sounded like a genuine question, but she had already fulfilled her side of the deal and wasn’t willing to give more. 

“You assume guilt haunts me at all,” she said brusquely. “Look, I’m not here to get into a _moral_ debate, and I’m not in the business of being ungrateful to myself. We’ve all done _things,_ Granger, and whether we continue to do them or not, the world will keep spinning until the sun inevitably explodes and takes all of the bastards with it.”

 

***

“You can call me Hermione, you know,” she said after a tense pause. It was not an action that implied surrender or even an extension of kinship, but this single conversation was illuminating in a way that demanded give. Offering her name simply tested the next stepping stone.

“It’s my turn to be the interrogator.” Pansy swept away her words and eased back into her previous casual poise. 

She nodded stiffly and tried her best to mimic Pansy’s unshakability, steeling herself to answer no more than beyond what was asked. 

“Why are you in 1973?” 

“I’m going to take down Voldemort and his Death Eaters.” The simple sentence sounded jarringly explicit—to the point of surrealness—and she suddenly felt a veil of disgust drape over her. She had planned in excruciating detail, had _known_ this probable fate, and still, she feared the very idea, the barest bones of it. This inkling of cowardice needed to be stomped out but internal battles were too often eternal, tug of war with a rope made of diamond brain flesh. Where did it leave her when she was not sealed shut to such flaws? 

_Human._ Unmercifully harsh, she thought she had never hated another word more.

A sharp burst of humourless laughter came from Pansy. “Just when I thought you couldn’t get any more arrogant. Do you think yourself a god? Do you forget what people thought of Harry fucking Potter?”

Hermione flinched and felt herself go cold.

_“The Chosen One,”_ she sneered, “and he died a boy mortal.”

“He didn’t ask for the title—” she began, nausea rising to her throat.

“He was a bloody fool for accepting it.”

“He had the _courage_ to accept it, and he had the courage to fight, which is more than what could be said for you and _your_ family. How dare you judge from the sidelines, how dare you judge choices you never had to make!” Her chest was heaving with fury and grief, and she desperately wanted to reach out and slap the apathetic droop off Pansy’s face.

“You’re a fucking hypocrite, _Hermione.”_ She spat out her name like it was a damned thing, fished out of an oily, poisoned lake.

“Takes one to know one,” she hissed, honesty overriding the phrase’s association with childishness.

Pansy had the audacity to grin. “Tell me how you’ll do it. Tell me how you’ll ‘take down Voldemort and his Death Eaters.’”

“I—” Her throat felt tight. “I don’t need to prove myself to you.” Every step she had ever taken in the wizarding world, she had to defend in a way that only muggleborns would understand. Though this was not explicitly that—maybe not that at all—her fists still clenched of their own accord, a move that made Pansy smell blood in the water.

“Suicide by feigned heroism, playing a game you don’t even know the rules to. That’s a new one.”

“Call it what you want, but I’m playing to _win._ I’m playing for what our generation went through because of him. I’m playing for what _I_ had to go through, what I had to sacrifice for that goddamn war. Voldemort and his followers are no less human than you or I, and I’m going to destroy them. If I die trying, I’m taking as many with me as I can.”

“You’ll be just as damned as Potter, then. You could easily get out now, go to the States or bloody Australia—”

“And do what? Start a new life? Pick up gardening?” Hermione laughed bitterly.

“Sure.” 

“No.” She shook her head and felt exhaustion seep down into her bones. “I can’t run away from this. I owe it to Harry and Ron _—to myself—_ to put this war to rest. You know just as well as I do that peace will never exist with Voldemort alive.” 

“Tell me how you’ll do it,” Pansy said again with almost none of her previous antagonism.

 

***

After Granger’s third stumbled answer (deflection) to a pointed question, Pansy could no longer stand to sit through more of her presentation, feeling sick. “So what you’re telling me is that you have no idea what you’re going to do, and you’ll improvise every step of the way.”

Granger stammered and spluttered through another attempt at a retort, the same song and dance about “the timelines” and “the effects of me _—us_ being here are unpredictable.”

“You should stop lying to yourself,” she commented.

“Everyone needs to cope,” Granger snapped. “And I’m _not_ lying to myself—”

“Then stop talking like you are. If you don’t know, then say you don’t. I’m sick of reading between the lines.” Her arms were crossed tightly, hiding the way her right hand had clenched and dug half-moon marks into her palm. 

Granger exhaled sharply and pressed her lips together before she said with apparent restraint, “The mission is simple. Redirect the timeline, prevent as much loss as possible. The boards are as detailed as they can be—you can only know some things if you live through them—”

“‘Redirect the timeline,’” Pansy scoffed. “Just say you’re going to assassinate—”

“That’s not what I’m doing.” Naked shock coated her bloodless face. “There are other ways—”

“You’ll never ‘destroy them’ if you don’t pull from the root, and what happened to taking as many as you can if you die trying?” 

“I know what I said. You can stop repeating my words back to me.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why am I even entertaining this? It’s not like you’re going to—to _help_ me or—” She stopped herself and stared at Pansy like she was something to solve.

But before Granger could collect another puzzle piece, she said, “I have nothing better to do.”

And wasn’t that just the truth despite all her instincts telling her to run and hide? Peace would never exist with Voldemort alive. They both knew it. 

Granger was flying by the seat of her pants. Regardless of her protests, they both knew _that_ too. But some combination of bravery and stupidity—perhaps better known as madness—made her the only one to rebuke the very idea of defeat and willing to try. Pansy would not pretend to understand, but something terribly close to respect floated to the top of her churning sickness. 

The only thing Granger’s experiment would lead to was a painful, whimpering death, but death was the only certain thing in life. Hadn’t she seen it already in the fate of her father, in the fate of Dumbledore, in the fate of herself?

“You could easily get out now, go to the States or bloody Australia,” Granger said, half-mocking, half-serious, parroting Pansy’s earlier words.

“Point taken,” she said evenly before she met Granger’s eyes and nailed her coffin shut with pilfered mechanical words. “No. I can’t run away from this. You know just as well as I do that peace will never exist with Voldemort alive.”

 

***

There was no point in asking Pansy why she was suddenly on her side. She wouldn’t have been willing to answer anyway. But also, perhaps, the answer might’ve been too complicated to distil into words. They had never once exchanged a kind moment before, always angry and mean and bitter. They had been two rocks colliding, over and over, trying to crack and chip away at the other.

Hermione hated how apparent that she was the softer of the two, emotions volatile and thrumming. It left _her_ the one with burning resentment each time, shame and embarrassment, sparked by Pansy’s bladed tongue. Even without ‘Mudblood’ ever passing through Pansy’s lips, she had worked around the word and found better, cleverer knives to hurl her way.

In this ludicrous new context of unintentionally meeting in the past, meeting as _survivors_ of war, maybe Hermione could see that she was now not the only one covered in cracks and chips. Pansy was still stone cold and contrarian and near-impossible to read, but she was familiar enough with desperation to recognise it in someone else.

The same instinct that didn’t allow her to abandon Pansy in the street seized her now, and Hermione felt too irredeemably tired to question it further. “Fine,” she said briskly in response to her own words delivered again from Pansy’s mouth. “The banks are closed today, so we’ll have to visit tomorrow. In the meantime, we’ll need to draw up the necessary documents: passports, birth certificates, driving licences, proofs of income and residence, the usual, before we can open a bank account and figure out where we’ll live. London would be ideal—Muggle, that is, as there are far too many complications in the wizarding world to make it worth infiltrating, not to mention it’ll be easier to lay low amongst a larger population.”

“Fine.” Pansy shrugged.

Hermione was surprised by how easily she agreed, but she wasn’t going to look the gift horse in the mouth. It was about time she’d gotten a gift horse anyway. “Okay,” she said, and let out a breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave a comment letting me know what you think. It is appreciated more than you know!!


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